For My Friends
by johnsarmylady
Summary: Three years after the Fall, and Sherlock comes home to Baker Street, bringing Greg along to help break the news. The reception he gets isn't quite what he expected. Rated T - Mild slash
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer – Don't own, wish I did!**

Sherlock knelt beside Mrs Hudson's chair, a hand placed solicitously on her arm, a little uncertain smile on his lips.

Across the kitchen, Greg Lestrade set about making a pot of tea to revive the elderly lady – he was not at all sure that she wouldn't still keel over from shock.

"Three years, Sherlock, you've been gone nearly three years" her voice was shaky, her eyes watery as she searched his face for a clue as to what had really happened.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson, I couldn't stay. The lives of the only three people I have ever considered to be my friends were at risk, I had to do it!"

"Yes dear, so you say." She mopped at the stray tears with her handkerchief. "Would it have hurt you to at least have told John?"

Sherlock frowned and looked up at Lestrade. He had said almost the exact same thing, giving the impression that something really not good had happened.

Pouring three cups of tea, Greg put them on the kitchen table and took a seat opposite his friend's landlady.

"He has barely left the flat, Sherlock. Three years, and he virtually lives in his room."

The thin, sharp featured face creased in a confused frown, and his eyes flicked upwards.

"Oh yes, Sherlock, he's up there now." Mrs Hudson confirmed, her eyes also straying towards the ceiling. "Wasting away he is, barely eats enough to keep a sparrow alive. He thinks – well, we all did – that your brother kept up the payments on the rent because he felt guilty.." she smiled sadly as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak "..Yes, dear, he told us what happened – he was distraught."

"Seriously mate, if we hadn't taken your revolver – I might add your _illegal_ revolver – away from the flat that night, he might well be serving time now for your brother's murder!" added, his eyes never leaving the younger man, as if to reaffirm his living presence.

"But…"

"You still don't get it mate, do you? John stood by and watched his best friend commit suicide. He visits your grave, you know, twice a year,"

"Twice?"

"Anniversary," Mrs Hudson supplied the details, "And Christmas. Each Christmas Eve he leaves here, and he sits by your grave until Boxing Day."

"I've tried to persuade him to come back to my place, " Greg added, shaking his head in despair, "but he won't have it – wants to spend Christmas with you, and nothing, nobody, can change his mind."

"Tomorrow will be the third anniversary, Sherlock. Tell him you're alive." The elderly lady's words unconsciously echoed words once spoken by John himself, years ago, in the ruins of Battersea Power Station.

Sherlock nodded and stood up. As he reached for his coat a nagging thought entered his head, but for a moment he couldn't quite place the significance. It was something Greg had said, something about….

"My gun?" his piercing gaze pinned the police officer to his chair. "You say you took _my_ gun?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Did you also take his?" the question dropped into the silence like a clap of thunder. The two men stared at each other.

Mrs Hudson let out a little whimper of alarm, drawing their attention back to her.

"He said…." She was shaking now, her eyes wide, frightened, "He said that it was too much, that he was thinking of moving on….you don't think….?"

Galvanised into action Sherlock raced for the stairs, taking them two at a time with Lestrade close behind him. As his hand reached for the door handle they heard it….a single gunshot…..and then silence.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer – Still don't own…..dammit!**

Sherlock and Greg froze on the stairs. Down in the hallway Mrs Hudson screamed John's name in fear.

Afraid that he may have come too late, Sherlock turned the handle – the door was locked. Pulling a key from his pocket he tried again, but once again the door wouldn't budge.

"He fitted bolts to the door, soon after…"

Neither man was listening. After trying to force the door open with no success, Sherlock hammered on the wood with his fist.

"John!" he yelled, not really expecting an answer. "JOHN!" Leaning his forehead against the door, his hands gripped the door frame.

"I'll get some back up here" Greg stepped away and pulled out his mobile. A hushed conversation, and confirmation of the address, then, "Ambulance on its way, and one of my team will bring over an Enforcer to get this door open." He put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and squeezed gently, feeling the younger man shake as tears coursed down his face.

"All for nothing," he sobbed quietly, "Why, John? WHY?"

Mrs Hudson sat on the bottom stair, her hand pressed to her heart, wondering how many more shocks she would have to take this day.

An eerie silence hung over the house as three people waited, each enveloped in their own little capsule of space and time, all of them wishing they had done things differently.

The sound of a bolt being drawn snapped them all out of their respective stupors. A second bolt was drawn, and slowly, ever so slowly, the door of flat 221B opened.

Gun held loosely in his hand, Captain John H Watson, MD, RAMC, stood staring out of red-rimmed eyes at the man outside his door.

Sherlock stared back, unable to believe the sight of the man in front of him.

Suddenly a hand shot out, grabbing the younger man by the lapel of his greatcoat, and dragging him in through the door, slamming it shut behind him and sliding the bolts home once more. Never moving his hand from Sherlock's clothing, John pressed the barrel of his service weapon against the other man's head, his clouded blue eyes staring into tear-drenched grey ones.

"Do you know what," he said carefully, his voice achingly rough from lack of use "I haven't made up my mind yet whether I should kiss you or kill you."

Sherlock stared back at him, for once unable to read his intentions in face or body.

"You _bastard_!" despite the emotion in the voice, the face hardly changes, the eyes continued to stare as if seeing a ghost. "You did that…..you made me watch….you fucking evil git!"

And there it was. That word. That name. The only person ever to call Sherlock that was John, his John. And the only person John ever used that name on was Sherlock, his Sherlock.

Pulling Sherlock's head down, John reached up and captured his lips, tasting the salt of both their tears as his tongue begged permission to explore. As it swept across that ridiculously girlish cupid's bow, the lips opened, and he plundered the depths of Sherlock's mouth with an eagerness borne of desperation and pain, an eagerness that was reciprocated and returned a hundred fold as the younger man wrapped his arms around the doctor and pulled him close.

It felt like hours before Sherlock finally raised his head, and looked down into John's eyes again, revelling in the love he saw there.

"But you're not gay!" he said softly, a smile on his well kissed lips.

"No, no I'm not," came the equally soft reply, "but then, you're not just any man – you're Sherlock Holmes."

"John, I…"

"Later. Tell me later. For now, I just want this…." And John reached up again to capture his mouth.

Outside the flat, Greg cancelled the ambulance, for now. And the police back up. He walked back down the stairs and sat next to Mrs Hudson, slipping his arm around her shoulders and giving her a hug. She leant into him, sniffing and dabbing once more at her eyes.

"My boys are home at last!"


End file.
